IMHO
by Negare
Summary: Basically a series of discussions about who has it worse, Ratchet, or Erin, an RN. A few swears, plenty of sarcasm and hospital humour.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's NB: **I was having a conversation with a doctor about which field contained more insane patient shenanigans, and who had to put up with more. It was tonight when I was trying to get the stupid Augmentim to dissolve that I thought of this story.

Because I don't like writing about myself, I will dedicate and base it upon another one of my nursing sisters!! Hahah Erin has an awesome Foetus!!!

Anyways….

**Chapter One:  
**

**Of handovers**

It can always be counted upon that staffing levels, especially in our profession will never be sufficient to a) meet patient demand, b) ensure patient safety, c) keep _us_ happy and most importantly, d) allowing enough nurses on that the majority of us can sit on our arses in the office discussing which doctor is shagging which nurse in which consultant's break room or which family member of which patient is the greatest jack arse to have congealed.

Please to not be offended or rather, as it stands, annoyed at one's flippant honesty, but one must have a rather self serving, gallows or otherwise insidiously _warped _sense of humour to maintain a safe functioning mind in practice. Especially nursing.

Medicine, on the other hand, is our mortal enemy. Our goal, and we teach it to our young as quickly as possible, is to be certain that the doctor knows his place – which is at the beckon call of the ward sisters and their powerfully persuasive Matron. The lowliest of doctors, house surgeons, are to be trained to ensure that they will carry out the requests of the sisters.

The patient with a BP of 80/60, we want gelofusion.

The male patient who has not voided, but with a bladder scan result of 1,307ml, we want an IDC place insitu.

Do not chart Tramadol without at least Maxalon.

Do not chart codeine without lactulose aka, "pooh juice".

Oh, and please, remember to label each page of the fold out drug chart, ensure the "Allergies" box is filled in, correct date, route, frequency, and dose. The sister does not want to have to ring you at 2258hrs asking for a rechart as there's no way the HS can possibly mean 40 MILLILITRES of novarapid.

One more thing, chocolates. Keep your ward sisters happy and give us the foods we tell our patients to not touch.

Remember the old adage, behind every doctor is a skilled, well trained nurse who saves his arse, or, directed to the patient, be kind to nurses, we stop doctors from killing you.

Of course, the realm of medicine is of a different mechanism, no pun intended, when it comes to the matter of Autobots.

The Autobots tend to have a functioning medical unit made up of their CMO, Ratchet, known to be quite a surly fellow with a bedside manner, that, for all intents and purposes, is non-existent and a rather weighty wrench that can travel great distances at speed to strike those of nuisance in the back of the cranium. First Aid, a young medic, yet adequately skilled and with the soft spoken, pacifist leanings he would have made a fine nurse, actually…. Wheeljack, who's primary purpose when not finding new and exciting ways to blow his limbs off, can at times act as an assistant to Ratchet, and is in his own right, a fine repairer of damaged bots. Enter Hoist, one other such Autobot who's purpose in life can extend beyond hauling someone's dented and Sleeker scorched arse back to the Ark. And Perceptor, a well polished sort who's love tends to be in the realm of science, but when needed, is known to do his part and patch up a few trigger happy metallic idiots – he is also vastly knowledgeable in Transformer diseases of a "social" transmission type – Megatron wouldn't be the first to hit the high grade and then wake up next morning with something commonly referred to as a "hangover" (usually AKA known as "regrets") and sharing his berth with an "asteroid" – a rather harsh description of a real femme with curves… well, at least, he _thought _it was a femme. When the need takes them, a rather portly fellow with a heart problem or two of his own and a spiffy yellow hardhat, "Sparkplug" as he is known, will recall his mechanical training and assist his new found metallic chums.

Erin of course, enters at this stage, not as an employee of Ratchet and his posse of "slap backers" – meaning they slap you back together, nor part time acquaintance to attract a more gentler and pink clad type of viewer, Jem doll clasped firmly in bangled hand, is simply a passer by to these proceedings. Simply put, Erin was sitting her arse outside a local hospital that Ratchet happened to be dropping Spike off at to visit his ailing father – that portly descriptive is often a precursor to di-Ah-beeee-teeees, something which befalls those who indulge in a few too many puddings.

Ratchet waited, he noted the young sister, a rough uniform adorning her frame and the all important nurses' badge hanging from her lapel, and the dead give away, bags under the eyes.

You see, nurses tell you they love their job, that it is a calling, some, such as the writer of this little ditty, would say a vocation. The reality is, as much as we love our job, the general public has NFC as to what we do, what we _really _do.

Many a nurse will have heard many a time the ignorant comments regarding the following –

You wipe arse. Sucks to be you.

You clean up shit. Sucks to be you.

You have to put on adult diapers (on patients, not yourself, though at this point, let me mention management has considered this to cut back on toilet breaks). Sucks to be you.

You have to get the doctor's coffee. Sucks to be you.

You have to get the patients whatever they want. Suck to be you.

And so on, and so fourth.

In reality, the job description and tasks of the modern sister is long reaching and would not be given adequate justice in this piece if give proper mention.

Ratchet, in vehicle mode, approached young Erin, wondering if speaking to her would cause some form of cerebral disaster or heart cessation. Neither happened. Why? Well, despite the above public beliefs about our job revolving around, and consisting only of, arse wiping, your average sister is no idiot. We are taught to be observant, and those of amongst our number who are not gifted with such a trait, do not last long in the profession.

"So, an Autobot, huh?"

Erin spoke firmly, not bothering to look beyond her luke warm tea (coffee being contraindicated in pregnancy).

"What makes you think I'm an Autobot?"

Ratchet counted with his trade mark manner of vocal tone.

"One, you're an ambulance, if you were a Decepticon, you'd be a laughing stock".

Erin took a sip of that luke warm tea, and yes, it was disgusting, but when a sister has to work an eight and a half hour shift, which sometimes stretches longer because the work load demands, and no break is involved, that putrid luke warm tea that's busy crafting its own new superbug in the bottom of the kettle, tastes like something the Queen herself would sip over her morning Times.

"Two, you haven't laid waste to the hospital".

Erin inwardly cursed him and his code of ethics and general morality.

(Yes, it is immoral to lay waste to a hospital, especially a _populated _one).

"Clever".

"Like a shit house rat".

Erin was quick.

It's a trait amongst sisters that our movements are both physically swift and mentally alert to the point we can switch into auto pilot when a patient is dying.

Let it be known, that the amount of paper work needed when a patient dies on the ward is so gratuitous that our speed is fuelled by the knowledge of the hours of unpaid overtime we must endure at the tail end of our Matron's whip to complete.

"So, you come here often, or are you hanging out for a paramedic to rush you to some car crash?"

It was an honest enough question which Ratchet gave an honest enough answer.

"I dropped off a friend to visit his father".

"I'm sorry to hear that".

In a way, it is self-destructive that we are sorry people are in the hospital, if it wasn't for McDonalds, American Tobacco, booze, and morons we'd be out of a job – well, most of us.

"And you? Completed your designation shift?"

A rather formal way of asking a rather simple question.

"The shift is completed; the designated hours were slightly in difference to what is belayed upon my contract".

Two things, yes, Erin does talk like that.

And, as for most shifts in the nursing profession, we are there long after our shifts have officially ended.

So, next time you're in hospital, please, PLEASE, shit the bed after handover, then the morning staff can leave on time, please don't stop breathing, have a heart attack, self discharge, have a "tanty", or… well, just don't ask us for anything after 1445hrs unless it's the time… on second thoughts, don't even ask us about that.

The conversation from there became fluid:

"You enjoy your job?"

"Pays the bills".

"Mustn't have many bills".

"I'm here more then I'm at home, so no, not many bills".

"What specialty?"

"General surgical".

"Interesting".

"Yes".

"Not a talker?"

"My allotted quota of social interaction for the day is nearing its completion".

"Like that, is it?"

"Always".

"I know what you mean".

"Very few do".

"Tell me about it".

"I would, but I feel you probably know more about it then I do. Being a giant robot alien and all, you must be pretty long lived".

"I have been around the planet or two a few times".

"Sucks to be you".

"Most of the time, yes".

"And when it doesn't?"

"I'm in recharge".

"Or drunk?"

"To borrow a human saying, on the nose".

"I tend to be, yes".

"And you?"

"Drunk?"

"Well, now that you mention it…"

"No".

"Good to know".

"This is an odd conversation".

"It's the sanest I've had all day".

"Thinking of it, Mr. Giant alien robot, same".

"Ratchet".

"No, but I've got a couple of luer plugs in my pocket, oh, and this alcohol swab, but its kinda bent".

"No, my name is Ratchet, I'm trying to introduce myself".

"Oh. Good thing I have no shame, else I might feel embarrassed".

"Seems to be a common thing amongst nurses".

And indeed it is true.

The writer could go into detail about the more… intimate… parts of our job, but a simple mention of "rectum" should suffice in creating a mental image.

"You gonna tell me your name?"

"Erin. My name is Erin. I am a nurse. I like long walks on the beach, romantic dinners and poking dead things with a stick".

And thus the friendship of Erin the sister and Ratchet the CMO began.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's NB: **How rude! I published this story at 0200hrs and then went to bed, I get online this morning… well, _later _this morning and it tells me "story not found", oh well, hope its sorted.

**Chapter Two:**

**Of fellows**

There are very few jobs and very few professions where one can escape the need of fellow employees. Some professions, such as both medicine and nursing are a little worse off, not only do those individuals who place themselves on such a career path have to deal with their peers, and other individuals of other specialities – often times referred to collectively as the "multi-disciplinary team, or MDT" and other staff of the facility such as cleaners, orderlies and other "support staff", we have to deal with the public. And often such, at their worst.

Amongst such a fray of interpersonal relationship building we find, and we cringe inwardly at such discoveries, those who despite having absolutely _**no **_training or awareness__of _our _job title and its subsequent detailed roles, they deem to take it upon themselves to tell _us _how to do _our _job. Granted, this phenomenon is probably found in all walks of life and all employs.

The conversation outside of Erin's place of employ had progressed beyond simple pleasantries and the occasional snide remark made at the expense of the other, to an extended invitation, by Ratchet, to Erin, to return to Autobot City for a few hours to see for herself the horrors the medical professional had to endure. Of course, on Ratchet's part, he was involving himself in the simple manner of finding suitable human health professionals who could be "drafted" into the ranks to assist with the increasing number of the organic parasites… ah… "human allies" who were converging upon Autobot labelled facilities. In actual fact, Ratchet was not ashamed to admit publicly, he thought most of them were a "pack of bludgers".

"Weren't you waiting for your friend?"

"He's got fully functional legs".

"So do I".

"He's a big boy; he'll find his way back".

"And if he doesn't, it'll learn him to use pebbles instead of a bread crumbs for a trail".

The joke was not understood.

A moment of discomfort followed, but both having jobs, in which such moments were a daily event, ignored it and continued into a discussion regarding the following:

**Co-workers. **

Erin expressed, and Ratchet agreed, that co-workers could be divided into five categories, not at all distinct and many, if not all, could have traits from each of the five. Concurrently, an individual could be placed in one category one day, and find themselves headed under another the next.

Erin relayed to Ratchet, her take on the situation:

There are five types of people you find yourself suffering from at work.

**Idiots**. People who have no business being in a profession where their brain is taxed.

**Morons.** People who have _some _level of intelligence, enough to get them passed tying their shoes, brushing their teeth and applying a sticky plaster to a wound, but have difficulty grasping concepts that revolve around a need for tasks that require math or the use of a possessive apostrophe.

**Bastards. **People who cause a rise in one's blood pressure.

**Know-it-alls. **Usually these individuals are found co-habiting the above three groupings. Whether or not their superior intellect is sufficient to inform _you _of your failings, they will still conjure the statement regardless.

**Tolerables. **Those who you don't mind working with. Within these individuals you can find those you can class as friends, whether or not you actually endevour to see them outside of your place of employ is debatable.

Erin then pointed out that there could be one added variable to each of these categories, making each a sub-category based on this one added variable.

The words **lazy arse.**

Erin used an example: **Lazy arse bastards.**

She found she did not need to elaborate further as Ratchet was well aware of such individuals.

Ratchet, in complete agreement with Erin expressed to her that sadly, for him, he was surrounded by all such groupings. Erin extended her condolences.

Erin then asked Ratchet if he was subjected to anyone who thought that they knew best, and that they would correctly inform Ratchet of how to do his job. The CMO did relay that his reputation was such _no one_ told him how to do his job; however, he did have "superiors" who brought it upon themselves to limit his activities.

"Ultra Magnus".

The words the Autobot spoke were muffled by a loud jack hammer tearing up the street, and for a human, with ears not as acutely tuned as an Autobot, Erin thought he said "Ultra Bad Arse"

Of course this was not the case and Ratchet, when the sounds of construction had died down, corrected her.

"Ultra Magnus is first and foremost, a solider, but the problem then he isn't just a solider, his illustrious job title is _city commander_. Sounds pretentious and it is. The problem then becomes the solider is now a bureaucrat. A bureaucrat who just so happens to wield too massive missiles on his shoulders".

"Sounds pleasant".

"Usually he'll keep his servos out of my business, being he is the first to admit his lack of knowledge when it comes to repair. His presence becomes a pain in the aft when he explains to me I'm not running**my **med bay efficiently, and that I need to implement lists and inventories and general paper trails that will take me away from **my **job as CMO and promote me to paper pusher".

"An issue indeed we all must face".

"I'd wager you have a complaint or two or three hundred and sixty eight".

"I can give you one off the top of my head. Completing smoking cessation assistance forms for those who DO NOT smoke".

There was silence.

It was the silence of Ratchet attempting to fathom the absolute stupidity and redundancy of filling out a form meant, that, at one time, the sole purpose was to enter a smoker into a cessation programme. How it had evolved that now non-smokers had to be entered into the paper trail of smoking cessation went beyond logic. Thank Primus Prowl wasn't present to hear that.

"Yes, your silence does indicate to me that you are thinking how fucking stupid it is".

"I don't think I can top that".

"I will let my managers know, I'm sure they'll be glad that they were able to concoct an action that would boggle the mind of a metal person of millions of years of experience".

The discussion then progressed back into those who had no training or real knowledge of the jobs they held yet would offer up their opinions as a form of expert advice, Ratchet relayed the following titbit:

"After an attack by the Decepticons, there were multiple serious injuries to multiple Autobots. I began about assessing each individual's injuries to figure out who needed help first".

Ratchet paused his commentary as he drove by another large construction site.

"There was an Autobot, who shall remain nameless, who told me, "I think it'd be best if you fixed so and so first, he has a busted leg strut and that's very serious" Now, let me point out to you, Erin, in case you are not aware, a leg strut is similar to what you humans would class as your bones, but only in function. For us, a broken strut is no emergency, there is no risk of infection or energon loss, if moved about it can damage other systems in the limb, but generally, its not life threatening. I politely…"

(And Ratchet when he says "politely" means "said it so rude as to curdle the stomach contents of Bob Saget telling the "Aristocrats" joke)

"…I politely told them that a broken strut was no danger and to assist his companion in remaining still. Instead of listening to me, he continued to tell me the same thing again, insisting that a broken strut was indeed serious".

Erin nodded in agreement at his irritation and the annoyance this individual seemed to be.

"Of course, what do I know? I'm just the CMO, its not like _I _know anything about Autobot medicine or repairs".

"So? What did you do the dunce?"

"Wrenches have many functions; one such is turfing it at the back of the heads of idiots".

"A fine usage indeed, doctor".

The doctor sighed irritably, at the memory of such stupidity and inquired as to Erin's experience with such dullards.

"I had a patient who had no swallow reflex, a broken hip, Parkinson's, and how to say this politely "not all his dogs were barking" or perhaps to give you ease of discernment "not firing on all pistons". Somewhere along the chain of command, someone decided to give this old chap a NG tube. It went in with great difficulty and great resistance and 30 minutes later he was due for an X-ray to ensure its correct placement".

Erin paused to dampen her lips.

"An orderly came to get him and noted to me that the NGT was in the front of his mouth. I pointed out to the orderly that I knew that, I was not blind, I could see it, but the tip was still down his throat".

Erin's voice began to express the signs of annoyance.

"I pointed out that the point of the XR was to determine the tube's location to which the orderly stated "you don't need an XR I can see where the tube is right now!" Of course, I couldn't very say "You stupid douche bag! We know the fucking tube is in his fucking mouth we can see the fucking thing, we can also see that he flicked the fucking thing forward into a small loop with his fucking tongue, but what we can't see is the FUCKING bottom of the tube! Which is why we need the fucking XR".

Ratchet offered sympathy.

"Instead, I refrained from the string of profanities I was thinking, thusly protecting myself from the dreaded "incident form" and instead pointed out that yes, indeed the tube does have a portion in his mouth, which is not supposed to be there, but the location of the tip is what we're interested in, hence the reason for the XR. The orderly then decided to take it upon me, a registered nurse, with a three year's bachelor's degree in nursing and a good few year's experience, to inform me of the correct location of the way a NGT was placed. I told him again, politely, that I was well aware of this, but we are concerning ourselves with the BOTTOM tip of the tube which is no where to be seen by the naked eye – hence the need for XR. Of course, even though I was born and raised in an English speaking country, to English speaking parents, and educated in an English speaking system, I must not have been speaking English to him correctly, as he pointed out, , to inform me of the correct location of the way a NGT was placed. I told him again, politely, that I was well aware of this, but we are concerning ourselves with the BOTTOM tip of the tube which is no where to be seen by the naked eye – hence the need for XR. Of course, even though I was born and raised in an English speaking country, to English speaking parents, and educated in an English speaking system, I must not have been speaking English to him correctly, as he pointed out, _yet again, _that there was no need for the XR as the NGT was clearly visible to him".

Erin rubbed her temples.

"Of course, it would never dawn on fate to make my life so simple, the orderly continued to inform me whoever had placed the tube _obviously _had done it incorrectly as he could see the tube in the patient's mouth. Information was given to him, by me, that the ENT (ears nose throat) consultant (big boss doc) had placed the tube, and yet again, we could see the body of the tube, but NOT THE TIP. And if the orderly, who's job is to push beds, roll heavy patients, and carry around boxes, with no medical training, WHATSOEVER decided to inform the ENT consultant, with years and years of experience how to correctly place a NGT he could have at it. Yet, such information was too much for such a lowly carrier of hospital goods. He yet again spun into a spiel about how an XR was not needed and how low and behold we could see it. I am of the mind that the orderly was ADD, not familiar with the words "bottom tip" or had sustained a brain injury in the past as to warrant correct methods of thinking void".

Erin had completed her story and slumped back slightly in the passenger's seat.

"You poor girl".

--

**Author's NB**: Holy shit, that tube story happened to me once. I mean, seriously? WTF!??!! What kind of orderly endeavours to tell me, a nurse, and several senior nurses, and the house surgeon what is so damn obvious it is staring us in the face, and then has the audacity to tell us that he doesn't need an XR? Well, blow me down Pa and run for the hills Ma Barker! Forget having doctors and nurses altogether, let's just get the orderlies running things!!

I wondered if that douche orderly was a medical student or something, but no, he wasn't, he was just so idiot who thought he knew better then the rest of us trained health care professionals.


End file.
